Hero Duty (6 page)

‘She likes you,’ Brodie said.

‘Oh, please.’ Derek sounded like a teenager.

He was probably rolling his eyes, but Brodie didn’t bother to look. He concentrated on Jessica. She paused halfway down the front steps, rocking on one foot. ‘Really?’

‘Well, you like her, don’t you? People like to be liked.’

‘Oh wise one.’ With her mockery, she relaxed into a genuine smile.

‘Like a damn fortune cookie,’ Derek muttered. He stuck his hands in his pockets and trailed after them.

Portia stayed in the doorway. The effect of her white clothing against the dim hall was undoubtedly calculated.

‘Jessica, I’m worried about you,’ Derek said.

Her smile vanished and her shoulders hunched.

Brodie dropped the folders and his duffel into the boot of the taxi and took her bags from her.

‘Losing a parent is a traumatic experience,’ Derek continued. ‘All the more for you. The loss of your mother — ’

Jessica froze.

Brodie bundled her into the taxi and closed the door. Physically moving women around wasn’t his usual style, but nor was standing by while one was abused. Emotional abuse was abuse. He faced her stepbrother.

The shorter man glared at him. ‘Jessica can run, but she can’t hide behind you forever.’

‘She’s not hiding.’

‘Liar. Even you don’t believe that.’

‘I do.’ Brodie leaned in. ‘The teenage girl you bullied is long gone. The woman Jessica is now fights for herself and what she believes in. Enjoy the weekend, Derek, because your life’s about to change.’

He got into the taxi before the jerk could reply.

***

‘Did you have to challenge him?’ Jessica asked as they drove away.

‘It was a bit high noon-ish, wasn’t it? There should have been tumbleweeds rolling and the wind whistling.’

‘You think this is funny?’

‘No, love, but a bit of humour helps most situations.’

The casual endearment, no more meaningful than a scattered ‘chickie’, ‘babe’ or ‘dear’, struck Jessica’s hurting heart. No one loved her. She was no one’s ‘love’. And she’d spent the last eleven years believing she deserved that lack of love. It was what had killed the few relationships in her past. She hadn’t believed she was worth loving. She’d wondered what was wrong with the men who’d wanted to love her.

The taxi pulled up at a modern hotel in the neighbouring suburb. The large expanse of concrete and glass looked reassuringly impersonal. Any view of the harbour was hidden by the surrounding buildings.

‘I thought this would do,’ she said as they unloaded her belongings from the taxi. ‘If you’d prefer somewhere else, maybe a B&B…’ Some of Sydney’s bed-and-breakfasts rivalled Portia’s home for luxury.

‘This is fine. As long as you’re happy.’ Brodie slung her backpack over one shoulder and his duffel over the other before picking up the stack of folders. It looked like he was trying to work out a way to juggle her suitcase as well.

She gripped it firmly. He grinned and slammed the boot lid shut.

Inside the hotel, the cute, tanned receptionist smiled at Brodie. ‘May I help you?’

He gestured to Jessica.

‘We’d like a suite?’ The question in her voice was for him. Would he mind? It was the best compromise she could think of between separate rooms and having him close if Derek came calling — and Derek would.

Brodie nodded.

‘It doesn’t have to have a view,’ Jessica added hopefully as she handed across her credit card.

The receptionist smiled at Brodie. ‘All our suites have a view of the harbour.’

‘Wonderful,’ Jessica said sourly. She’d escaped the torture of the family home, but not its view. What was so wonderful about sea views anyway?

The concierge gestured a bellboy forward to take their luggage.

‘I’ll hold onto the folders,’ Brodie said.

Her mouth tightened in rueful realisation that he’d seen the
commercial in confidence
stamps all over the papers and was protecting them, whereas she’d left them scattered around her room in a house where people hated her. Irresponsible.

They caught the lift up. The carpet in the corridor smelled new and was a deep blue. 1980s naff.

The suite was more restrained. Shades of light brown, cream and a grey-blue pre-dominated. The curtains were drawn back, framing an impressive view that she ignored.

Brodie dumped the folders on the low coffee table and strode forward. ‘Very nice.’

She tipped the bellboy and, turning around, caught Brodie’s look of approval. She liked it. Although given her lack of practice in graciously accepting a compliment, she very nearly said that she could afford a tip. The tip wasn’t the point; that she thought of others was.

The door closed behind the bellboy, leaving them alone.

She fidgeted with the strap of her watch. ‘You choose a room. I’m not fussed.’

‘Which makes you the most obliging employer in the history of the world.’

He sounded critical, which hurt. She shrugged. ‘Sydney isn’t new to me, nor is the view. You should enjoy it.’

‘Hmm.’

While he went on a tour of exploration, she kicked off her sandals by the coffee table and padded barefoot into the kitchen corner. Beside the coffee maker stood a kettle and a selection of teas. She filled the kettle.

‘Tea or coffee?’ she greeted his return.

‘Tea, please. Milk and one sugar. I’ve taken the brown room to the right. Nice view, but then, all the rooms have. I’ll put your gear in the blue room.’

She placed their mugs of tea on the coffee table and collapsed into one of the comfortably over-large armchairs.

Brodie sat on the sofa and reached for his mug.

The silence stretched.

‘So what did you think of my family?’

‘I thought you were right to get help in dealing with them.’ A blunt answer, but not hurtful. ‘But I think you’re going to need more help than me. Qualified help. Have you talked honestly with your lawyers? Are they your lawyers and not tied up with your family?’

‘I think they’re my lawyers,’ she said doubtfully. ‘I hadn’t considered…they’re not employed by Numbat. I mean, the ones dealing with my inheritance from Pops. The Numbat lawyers…’ She looked at the stack of folders. ‘I’m not sure of anyone’s loyalties in the corporation. It’s eleven years since Pops died. The corporation grew used to functioning with Dad as Chairman. If Derek stepped into that role, nothing would change.’

Brodie’s mug thudded onto the coffee table. ‘That jerk wants to be chairman of a billion dollar company?’

‘Yes.’ She was confused by his response. ‘That’s what this is all about. Derek, and Portia, believed that Numbat was Dad’s. Derek expected to inherit. Then he learned that it’s actually mine. I can’t quite believe that Dad never told them the truth, but he was very convincing in the role of chairman and billionaire. Derek had an expectation for his future and I’m all that’s standing in his way of getting it. He and Portia know I don’t care about the money, so if they put enough pressure on me, they’re betting I’ll cave and give Derek the power-of-attorney Dad had.’

‘Making him chairman.’

‘In effect, yes.’

Brodie frowned at her. ‘Have you made a will?’

An unhappy shiver slid down her spine. ‘The lawyers, my lawyers, insisted.’

‘Good.’

He didn’t ask, but she told him anyway. ‘Portia gets the house and an allowance from a trust. Some bequests go to friends. Everything else goes to charity.’

‘Nothing for Wonder Boy.’

‘I don’t like him.’ Her fingers tightened on the handle of her mug. ‘He doesn’t like me, either. Portia…it would be cruel to leave her with nothing. She’s not usually unkind, just detached. You can’t blame a person for their cold personality. She’s not used to working and Dad left only debts. Her allowance starts now, while I’m alive. Derek can support himself.’

‘Agreed.’ Brodie swallowed some tea. ‘Does he have debts?’

‘Pardon?’

‘Derek. If he expected to inherit everything, was he living on the expectation?’

The boa constrictor in her tummy tightened viciously. ‘Putting on a show, like Dad.’ She nodded slowly. ‘Even as a vice president, his salary wouldn’t allow him an apartment like he and Anabel bought. Plus the cars and holidays. He really needs my money, doesn’t he?’

‘I think he considered it his,’ Brodie said seriously. ‘He and his mum are going to fight like hell to claw it back.’

***

After that disconcerting conversation, Jessica buried herself in the papers Brodie had carted from the mansion.

Brodie went for a walk. ‘Phone me if either of them call you. Better yet, don’t answer if they call. You can call them back later, when I’m here.’

It seemed he was taking his emotional bodyguard duties seriously. If she’d needed an objective outside view of the situation, that was it. Her relationship with her stepfamily was as ugly as she’d feared.

The papers from the lawyers and from Numbat’s CEO, Joe Sagra, were daunting in quantity, and a fair number were written in gibberish, or as they preferred to describe it,
business jargon
. However, if there was one thing studying for a PhD taught you, it was the discipline to read and read and read. Jessica switched from sitting in the armchair, to lying on the sofa, and back to sitting in the armchair, this time with her legs dangling over the side. Beside her, she kept a small notebook, jotting down questions and observations. As she finished, she discarded the papers onto the floor.

‘Cyclone Jessica,’ Brodie said when he walked back in.

She swung her legs off the side of the chair and looked around. ‘They’ll all need shredding.’ How else did one deal with
commercial in confidence
papers? She remembered years ago, in winter, Pops had burned them in his fireplace. Then toasted marshmallows.

‘So a few footprints won’t hurt?’ Paper crackled as Brodie crossed to the sofa. ‘You’ve been at it for more than two hours.’

‘That long?’ She stretched and yawned. ‘I hope you weren’t bored.’

‘I found a few things to do.’

‘Oh?’ She cut off a second yawn, suddenly cautious. There was a note of satisfaction in his voice. ‘What sort of things?’

‘I scouted the neighbourhood for a start. The receptionist recommended the rooftop restaurant for dinner.’

I bet she did, and herself for company.
Jessica refrained from comment.

‘But I saw an Italian place around the corner. I haven’t had lasagne in ages.’

‘Me either.’ Jessica realised she was hungry. ‘It’s one of those meals not worth cooking for one person.’

‘You make your own lasagne?’

‘Well, I don’t make the pasta sheets, but otherwise, yeah. I like extra basil in the sauce and I slow-cook the tomatoes.’

Brodie shook his head. ‘You don’t act rich.’

‘I’m more than a stereotype.’ The poor little rich girl. She’d hated, resented and run from her money for so long. It was easier to pretend it didn’t exist, to live a normal life as a fledgling academic. Except it was inescapable. She untied her plait and ran her fingers through her hair, separating the strands. She was tired. ‘Being rich is a hassle. I like cooking my own meals.’

He watched her hand running through her hair.

Belatedly she recalled a magazine article she’d read at her hairdressers. A woman playing with her hair was flirting; hence the fashionable appeal of long hair. She snatched her hand down, letting the last few strands of blonde hair fall in disarray. ‘When do you want to eat?’

The light flooding in the window was golden. Sunset.

‘I’m easy,’ he said.

‘Thirty minutes?’ She needed a shower.

‘Suits me.’

***

The soft shadows of dusk brought out the scents of the plants growing along the harbour-side street; honeysuckle, jasmine and lavender where Jessica’s skirt brushed against a low hedge. Roses nodded over a white painted picket fence.

She had showered and changed from jeans to a maxi dress with a cotton cardigan over the top. She’d re-plaited her hair.

Brodie strolled along in navy chinos. He’d rolled up the sleeves of his white shirt, and looked all the more impressive for his casual elegance. His stainless-steel watch emphasised his masculine style.

The Italian restaurant had warm yellow lighting spilling from the windows and violin music playing, but it wasn’t romantic. The effect was family-friendly and welcoming.

A waiter greeted them. ‘Would you like a table inside or out?’

‘Inside, if you don’t mind?’ Jessica said. Outside, the water glimmered with reflected light.

Brodie nodded.

They got a table at a window. The cars on the road had their headlights on. So many people, busily returning home or venturing out for the night. The headlights were like swarms of fireflies.

‘Thanks.’ Brodie accepted the beer he’d ordered from the waiter.

Jessica smiled her thanks for the lime-spiked soda water.

This wasn’t a date, so there was no pressure to make conversation. Jessica could be as silent as her tiredness dictated. If it had been a date, she thought Brodie would have been okay with the silence anyway. He didn’t need noise and fuss to affirm his identity. He was just quietly, effortlessly, in control.

He put down his bottle of beer. ‘I hired a car.’

‘You…why?’

‘It’s a bit far to walk from the hotel to your stepmother’s. This way we won’t be dependent on taxis.’

‘I’ll reimburse you.’

He shrugged.

‘Brodie.’

‘Relax. I know you’re good for the money.’

The faint teasing reassured her, but she decided against pushing the issue. ‘Thank you. It’s a good idea.’

‘Almost as good as my next one.’

She waited.

‘You need to go shopping, tomorrow.’

She blinked.

‘Your stepmother and brother use their clothes, their appearance, to intimidate. You need to face this weekend with the right clothes.’

‘I can’t compete with Portia. She’s made a life’s work out of looking good.’

‘She looks like a starving greyhound.’

Jessica choked.

‘How hard can it be?’ he continued. ‘You have the money to outspend her. All we need to do is find an expensive clothes shop.’